The conduit had risen unsteadily to her feet, but hadn’t rushed toward them. She lifted a hand – and Lance tensed – but only to brush hair from her face.
“Why were you fighting with him?” Rose asked.
The conduit looked at the dagger with naked fear, and then at Rose. He’d never seen one display such emotion; such humanity. Before, he hadn’t even known they’d breathed or eaten – save whatever sustenance they drew from draining the life from human sacrifices.
The conduit dampened her lips, and spoke, her voice full of an intense, human hesitance – but resonant in a way a human voice could not be. That chime of something celestial and otherworldly that imbued all conduit voices. “He shouldn’t have been holding these people here. Trapped. I told him to let them go.”
“Why?” Lance demanded.
Her gaze shifted toward him; the knowledge of centuries shining out of what should have been a naïve face. “Because they’re innocent.”
He pulled Rose tighter against him; she protested with a full-body twitch, but didn’t try to wriggle free. “I thought you guys didn’t go in for that. We’re all sinners. Nobody’s innocent, right?”
The conduit cocked her head. “Humankind will always be full of sin. It’s the very nature of humanity. That doesn’t mean all humans deserve to die. You are created, after all, in His image.”
“You were here to stop him?” Rose asked. He really shouldn’t let her, but he didn’t protest. “You were going to let all those people upstairs go?”
“Yes.”
“And we’re supposed to believe you?” Lance asked. “That you’re different from the others?”
“I am different.” A challenge, now. “I won’t harm you.”
Rose still had her arm free, and she twirled the dagger. The conduit’s gaze followed it – not exactly frightened, now, but not indifferent.
“Stick her and let’s be done with it,” Gavin suggested.
Lance ignored him, his thoughts spinning. They’d never before encountered a conduit who was willing to speak with them like this. Who professed humanity’s innocence. And maybe it was a ploy, but it was the first time it had been used, and there was something distinctly less eerie about this one.
“In a minute,” he said, “I’m going to radio for backup, and others like us are gonna come and transport these people out of here.”
“They won’t have to,” the conduit said. “The threat is passed.” She nodded toward the slumped, very human body that lay on the floor between them.
“Because you aren’t a threat to them?”
“I just told you I wasn’t.”
Lance dragged Rose back another few paces – and turned her loose. He caught her shoulder, though, and gripped until she glanced up to meet his gaze. “What do you think? Is she telling the truth?”
For a moment, she looked startled that he’d asked. A quick flash, there and gone again. Then her expression smoothed, and she glanced toward the conduit; scrutinized her.
The conduit stared back.
“I think she is,” Rose said after a long moment. “And if she isn’t” – she brandished the dagger – “I’ll take care of her.”
~*~
Captain Bedlam did a lot of shouting.
“Your first fucking day!” she fumed at Rose, who stood impassive, boots still caked in mud, hands folded demurely in front of her. There was nothing demure about her expression, though; there was nothing about it alive, really. If her eyes had glowed a little, Lance would have thought she was the conduit they’d brought back from the field. “And not only do you operate without orders, refuse to stand down when your superior tells you to, but you engage hand-to-hand with a fucking conduit with a fucking knife!”
She sucked in a breath, still pacing behind her desk, and Lance knew it was only a pause, that she was gearing up for her next assault.
But Rose – brave, stupid Rose – said, “It’s not an ordinary knife, ma’am.”
Bedlam whirled on her. “What did you say?”
The knife in question lay on the desk, glittering beneath even the dull, energy-conserving lamps mounted to the walls. Rose gestured toward it with two fingers. “It’s not a pocket knife, ma’am. And it was forged in hell. It’s a dagger that has the power to expel an angel from a conduit.”
Bedlam blinked at her a moment, dumbfounded – no one ever contradicted her. When her scowl returned, Lance could tell she struggled to contain her curiosity. “I don’t care what the fuck it does. You went off book, and, judging by this little bit of insubordination, you’ve not even learned why that was a problem. You are dismissed, Sir Rose. You’ll be lucky if I don’t take your wings.”
Rose nodded, and though her gaze lingered a moment too long on the dagger – wanting to take it back – she turned and slipped silently from the room.
“And you.” Bedlam whirled on Lance the moment the door was shut. “You lost your last young one yesterday and you’re letting this one go Rambo on a room full of conduits?”
Lance took care to ensure that his exhale was not a sigh. “Technically–”
“Don’t you technically me.”
“There were two conduits in the room – it wasn’t a room full of them. And they were fighting with one another. To be fair, none of us have ever seen anything like that. We were momentarily shocked. Greer reacted on instinct, and it’s my fault that I didn’t prevent her actions. If you want to blame anyone for it, blame me.”
“Oh, I’m blaming you alright. Instinct?”
“Greer isn’t some fresh-faced kid off the farm.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Bedlam shot back.
“She had a lot of prior combat training.” He wondered what had made Arthur Becket look at her and decide she’d make a worthy soldier. She was…but it was hard to imagine his thought process. “And she’s dealt with conduits before – at least one that I know of. She knew they could be killed, and she knew that dagger would do the job.”
Blind, superior anger warred across Bedlam’s face another moment – and then gave way to exhaustion. She thumped down inelegantly into her chair. “Where did she get it?” She nodded toward the dagger; Lance wondered if she was afraid to touch it.
“Anthony Castor.”
“The mobster back east?”
“The same. Or, well, his conduit had it. They used it to perform a ritual – one I’m guessing Tony thought he’d walk away from.”
She nodded.
“But before that, I have no idea. It’s supposed to be hell-forged. All I know is it kills conduits when nothing else can.”
“Wraith Grenades,” she countered.
“Messy. Inexact. And lots of potential for collateral damage.”
She lifted a hand – and then folded it into her lap. Her gaze sought his, penetrating and sharp. She missed nothing. “You recognized her. Yesterday in my office.”
“Ma’am?”
Her mouth twitched. “You walked in here and looked like you’d seen a ghost. One you wanted to see. She’s the girl you rescued from Castor’s place, isn’t she?”
Lying rarely paid off in these situations. His mouth felt dry with sudden nerves, though. “Yes. She is.”
Bedlam folded her arms and leaned back in her chair, expression going thoughtful. “Arthur Becket’s little pet.”
“I wouldn’t say pet,” he said, a kneejerk defense, and his captain’s mouth twitched again. “And how do you know about Becket?”
“You think I don’t read your reports just because I’m up to my fucking ears in them? Also: everybody keeps up with the Eastern crime scene. Everybody who does knows about King Arthur.” She lifted a single brow. “Is he really dead this time?”
“I watched it myself. If he’s not dead, he’s definitely no longer on this plane of existence.”
Bedlam nodded, and sighed. “The girl’s fucked up, du Lac. If I can see it, then you can, too.”
He nodded, with no small amount of regret.
“She’s
the kind of fucked up that wants to throw herself at every big, bad thing she runs into, until they’re all dead, or she is.”
His throat got tighter. “I don’t know that I’d say she’s suicidal.”
“I would. Which, given how short-handed we are, and how ugly this damn war is, I don’t see myself turning away a willing gun…or knife,” she allowed with a fast gesture toward the dagger, “just because she’s got a death wish. But I won’t have her in the field if she’s going to get all of you killed. Is she a liability to your company?”
He knew she wouldn’t accept any hedging, not about this. If he lied outright, she would smell it on him.
He took a breath and said, “She’s the only person who’s ever been a part of my team who’s killed a conduit outright. No Grenades, no bystanders.”
Bedlam studied him a long moment; he swore this meeting had added to the little lines that branched off from the corners of her eyes. Then she nodded. “Fine. If something changes, I’m reassigning her. She can have her knife back, I guess. I don’t want it.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He picked up the dagger – it was heavier and warmer than he expected, than he remembered.
“Du Lac.” Bedlam stopped him when he was at the door, and he glanced back over his shoulder. “You brought one of those things onto my base.” He heard the faintest shiver of fear in her voice. “Don’t make me regret keeping you around, either.” A clear warning.
“No, ma’am.”
~*~
The infantry stationed here all slept in a communal bunk room, but the Knights had some modicum of privacy: tiny, shoebox quarters, with just enough space for a bunk, and a wedge of floor to stand on. It wasn’t much, but it was better than listening to a hundred other people snore all night.
Lance rapped on the door of Rose’s room, and waited for her muffled come in before turning the handle.
She sat on the edge of her bunk, boots already off, in the process of peeling down her thick socks. She paused and lifted her head to see who it was when he leaned in the threshold. Her gaze shifted quickly from his face to the dagger he carried.
“Captain says you can have this back.”
She reached for it quickly, like she was afraid he’d try to retract it. Held it a moment, once he’d passed it over, thumb tracing over the largest ruby in the hilt; then she set it carefully aside on the mattress and went back to removing her socks.
“You know, you coulda pried the rubies outta that thing and pawned them. You could be living in a mansion right now instead of slogging through the trenches with us,” he tried to joke. It would have fallen flat with anyone; with Rose, it fell like a case full of bricks.
She balled up her socks and tossed them lightly into the laundry sack hanging on the wall. Her feet, when she set them down on the cold, concrete floor, were pale, with high arches, and slender toes. Delicate, girlish feet that clashed wildly with the look she gave him.
He sighed. “Look. You know that can’t happen again, right? I told Captain Bedlam that you aren’t a risk to the rest of the team, but you can’t go off half-cocked doing your own thing on a mission like that.”
She stared at him, gaze inscrutable.
“Rose, tell me you understand.”
“You think I’m insane,” she said.
“I think you’re reckless. I think you’re still hurting really bad, and that you don’t care about your own wellbeing.”
She blinked, a brief surprise flaring in her eyes before she drew it back.
“There,” he said. “Right there. You’re so clamped down it’s like you’re not even all there.”
Her brows went up a fraction, mouth setting in a sour line.
“You have to compartmentalize in this line of work. You can’t feel everything, or you’ll drown in it. Hell, I lost a guy yesterday, and I don’t even remember his name.” He felt an inward lurch of shock at his own confession. He hadn’t meant to say that; hadn’t meant to let frustration bleed through like this.
“It’s good that you’re tough,” he said, starting again with a deep breath. “That you’re hard. And God knows you’ve got the skills. But you didn’t know what would happen today. You acted on your own, off book, and you could have gotten my whole team killed.”
Her gaze flicked away, lashes lowering. He chose to see that as remorse, because the alternative – that she didn’t care if any of them lived or died – hit too close to home.
“I’m glad to have you on board, but if you’re gonna be on my team, you have to be a part of that team, and not a free agent tagging along for the ride. Got it?”
She nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Lance,” he corrected. “The Knights don’t stand on ceremony like all the rest. We’re…” And now he felt a pang of regret for the poor boy he and Tris had buried last night. No words had been said over his cold spot in the mud; Lance had no Polaroids or fond memories to carry forward to remember him by. He’d been just another shlub with a set of tags. He wanted to do better; he had to, if he was going to continue to lead this team and keep them from disaster. He knew all too well that there was a gulf of distance between stoic and indifferent. He didn’t want to be the latter.
Not with Rose, especially.
“We’re not just a bunch of guys following orders,” he continued. “Small and tightknit. Specialized. We can do what we want without all the pretension. The Knight Companies…they’re like little families.”
Her head jerked up, eyes momentarily wide – and haunted. So, so wounded. Her throat jumped as she swallowed, and she sent him a fleeting glance, lips pressed together into a single, white line. She didn’t speak – he had the sense she couldn’t – but nodded.
He swallowed, too, his throat sticking. Dropped his voice to a whisper. “It won’t bring him back.”
She sent him another startled look, her head kicking back, nostrils flaring. He watched her pull on her mask this time: glittering anger to cover the pain.
“Being reckless. Taking unnecessary risks. I know you miss him–”
“You don’t know anything.” Not a hiss, or a snarl; flat resignation. Absolute knowledge.
“I’m sorry,” he pressed on, still whispering. The urge to touch, to comfort in some way, was so strong that he shifted forward, hand lifting.
But she leaned away.
He let his hand fall. “I’m sorry you lost him,” he said again, with his own resignation heavy in his chest. “I really am. But getting yourself killed won’t bring him back.”
She was silent a long time, staring down at her hands where they clutched her knees, slender toes curled up. Then she said, “No. But maybe I could join him.”
THREE
The Present
It was still raining. Rose stood beneath the relative shelter of a wooden awning, the cold stone of the church supporting her shoulders. Watching. Just marveling.
Brother Eustace had found some old, soft, but clean clothes for Beck to wear: black pants and a loose white shirt. The wings were an obstacle, but Eustace and one of his fellow monks had tackled the task of cutting the back of the shirt into a series of panels that could be fastened around the bases of the wings with ready aplomb. They’d done this before, she thought. Had dressed a hell-fresh, winged soul, still seaming like a roast come out of the oven.
Beck stood barefoot in the church courtyard, face tipped back, palms open at his sides. The water slid over his closed eyelids, and down the sharp line of his nose; followed the wicked edges of his cheekbones and jaw. A gentle rain, filling his cupped palms, pattering his shirt with dark spots. Rainwater glazed his new horns, their onyx ridges and contours, so they gleamed. The new blackness of his hair washed all the gold from his complexion; left him pale and unfamiliar.
But she would have known him anywhere. Knew the line of his throat, and the curve of his spine. Knew his stance, his feet so light on the flagstones it seemed he could have alighted into the air at any moment. He’d stood that way even before the wings, when
he’d been ever-ready to leap, and kick, and strike.
Her heart galloped in her chest, threatening to send her into a swoon. She couldn’t stop smiling, even though her face ached.
“You’re getting wet,” she called.
“I know,” he called back. “It’s wonderful.”
He stood another moment, then straightened and shook his head; black hair tossed, sending crystal droplets scattering; dark strands clung to his cheeks and neck, after, and he reached up with both hands to smooth it back. His fingertips bumped the horns, and she watched him trace their shape, chewing at his lip with one fang. Learning the size of them; carefully brushing his hair back between and around and under them. They were an obstacle to be navigated now, but he didn’t seem troubled, only curious.
His wings stretched out wide, and then lifted together in the center. The two hooks that were like bat thumbs interlocked, and he had his very own umbrella: a sheltering cover of black, leathery flesh shielding him from the elements.
Rose kept waiting to be afraid, but it wasn’t possible, apparently.
Beck was back.
Beck was here.
The king to her queen.
She would have taken him even if no part of him had been human anymore.
His gaze found hers across the rain-dappled distance, and he grinned – one of those once-rare, genuine fanged smiles that had always come after. Given freely, now, as he stalked toward her, his tail flicking gently back and forth.
She supposed this was an after of a kind. After escaping hell.
She reached for him; she couldn’t help herself. It had been five years, and she couldn’t believe that he was here, that she could touch.
He reached back. His palm found her cheek, when he was close enough; that familiar pattern of calluses, preserved, even after five years of whatever hell had dealt him. And, faintly, the scrape of claws, beneath her ear, down her throat. But she wasn’t afraid; she’d never once been afraid of him, no matter what.
“Rosie,” he breathed, as his other hand found her waist, and the shadow of his great wings fell over her, enfolded her.
Night In A Waste Land (Hell Theory Book 2) Page 3